His Letters to Sherlock
by Baratsuki
Summary: After Sherlock's death  and leading up to the return , John writes him letters about his life as it progresses Sherlock-less.  John/Sherlock  Mature Content
1. The First

Dear Sherlock,

I don't know why I'm doing this. Really. You're never going to read any of this, so there's obviously no point in me typing page upon page for you to read. Still, my therapist says it's a good idea. Ella was right about the blog, at least partially, so now I'm going to try this. I know you'd frown upon it. It's silly of me to try to follow through with it.

I'll start by saying that I've yet to vacate 221B. I know I should because I can't stay, both for monetary and emotional reasons, but I can't yet. Mycroft has made it his personal mission to keep me here for now, for whatever his reason is. I threatened to leave for Harry's, since she's gotten back together with Clara, but he insisted on my staying for at least another month. I can't argue with him, as you well know, so I'm going to stay a while. Even if I am having to live with a silent threat over my head in this old flat, I don't think I'll mind it so much. Sometimes at night if I've just woken up from a nightmare, I imagine you're playing the violin downstairs, or doing some sort of experiment that caused a noise to wake me up. I've spent every night setting up a pretense of normality that you could see through without deducing a thing. Still, I've got to do it to keep sane. It's nothing new to me, anyhow, I've seen plenty of people exit my life by way of death, so I just do what I've always done. Anyway, I won't be here long, hopefully. I imagine Mycroft will eventually talk some sense.

I've not touched any of your things, you'll be happy to know (nothing that wasn't a bio-hazard, anyway). I want to move all of it someplace that I won't be able to see it or think about it anymore, but if I did that, then I'd have to re-do the entire apartment. New furniture, wall paper, cabinets, new everything, but I won't touch your room. I promise you that if I ever do decide to stay and just change everything, I won't change your room. That was and still is _your_ space. Of course, I'd add in a joke about that just begging for a haunting, but I wouldn't really be joking, now would I?

I will admit it is difficult to get up in the morning and not see your coat and scarf on the door, and that I've had the odd sleepless night because of the sheer amount of silence in 221B in the middle of the night. I want to wake up one night and hear the normal ruckus, just once. I wouldn't complain at all, I promise. Even still, I'm fine for now. You'd say otherwise, I know, but I have to keep my thoughts positive. Ella insists. She _always _insists that I keep my thoughts positive. I'm just sorry there isn't a true reason for me to.

I won't bore you with the details any longer, though. You'd probably rather hear about what cases Lestrade's had troubles with recently and all that, but I'd be lying if I told you any of those stories. I've cut all of that out of my life for now. I am sorry, but I can't do it anymore. The very minute I hear about a murder case on the telly or someone asks if I've been taking up cases in your absence, I freeze up. I lose the ability to function properly for a good day or two and drink myself into bloody oblivion.

And luckily for you, I've not shut down my blog. I want your cases to be up forever so that everyone can see all that you did and all that you were. Yesterday, I even sat down and read the whole thing from start to finish. It was more difficult than I had initially thought, but I did it. That night, I dreamed of you and suddenly everything was ruined. Every positive thought I'd collected for use when I felt down, every carefully constructed façade, everything, it was all ruined. I didn't fall asleep again for several days, but it gave me time to think. Time to think on all of it and whether it had all been worth it for me. I did lose my job twice, and I managed to upset several small children in the process of some cases (no thanks to you), not to mention all of the times I violated the Hippocratic oath, but in the end, I came out a better man than I had ever been. Of course, now I'm back at the start. This time, I won't be allowing myself the luxury of recovery because I didn't earn it. You decided to earn it for me. How does that thought sit with you?

-John


	2. Red

_A/N: Hey guys, here's the low-down on how this story is going to work. Every other chapter is a letter, but the ones in between are actual events, just so you don't get too bored with the chapters all being the same or something like that. Happy reading! :)_

John woke to the dim light of the overcast morning with something that felt like guilt, pushing down at his chest as if to keep him from moving. He buried his face in the pillow nearest him, fighting to win back his breath. It had been the dream again, and the same one had been robbing him of the will to live for eighteen months and ten days. The event itself still loomed fresh in his mind, every detail of the day and the place was burned like a cattle brand into the folds of his brain. Every night, John saw him leaning, leaning, leaning, and then falling. Falling so long and so, so very far. He could never bring himself to see what happened after Sherlock hit. Not entirely, anyway. His entire mind would fill in were flashes of red. Red on white, red on blue, _red_, **_Red_**,**_ RED_**.

Most days he was grateful for the cyclist running into him and disorienting him, he didn't want to remember the exact details of Sherlock's death. Yet still, the details were there, like a cattle brand burning still hot on the folds of his brain and the delicate pericardium of his heart. Sherlock was there in his head, sprawled on the ground, ivory skin and raven curls stained with blood, the only things with no trace of blood on them were his eyes, like bright blue marbles. John pressed his face into the pillow with force, as if attempting to cut off the oxygen to his head.

He had to stop _thinking_.

The window on the far right wall leaked light all over the room, barely any at all, but still just a little. It illuminated the periodic table nearest it, almost delicately; as though it were aware John was in the room and was trying to be sensitive to his still fresh emotional wounds. He loved that room. It was the best room in all of 221B, and that was probably why Sherlock had taken it for himself. John hadn't ever grown to appreciate it until after the consulting detective was gone, but his grief made the room all the better. It was so neat, so organized, and the thing he loved best of all about it was that Sherlock had pasted a glow-in-the-dark solar system and stars all over the dark ceiling.

He often remembered how offended Sherlock had been at his incredulity towards Sherlock's not knowing anything about the solar system. At the time, it certainly was odd to John that a grown man wouldn't know anything about the solar system, but the longer he lived in 221B, the more endearing that ignorance became.

Sherlock was always so concerned about John being alive toward the end, even when he didn't outwardly express it. He was always worried that Moriarty was getting to him, creeping into his mind, changing his loyalties, but the ignorance was blocking him from seeing the true answer. John quietly went to the surgery every day to earn money for the rent. He quietly came home to check up on Sherlock. He quietly and patiently sat for hours reading the paper while Sherlock composed or experimented, sometimes entertaining one of Sherlock's theories, or even cooking or cleaning up after Sherlock.

It had all been for Sherlock's benefit, and still, in those final hours, Sherlock was worried that John's loyalties would change. In the end, it was the loneliness and the memories that were getting to John. There was so much he could give, so much he already had given, and still Sherlock was dashing about, ignoring him, unappreciative. But there was nothing John could do. It was his nature, it was _Sherlock_. There was a genius there behind all of that ignorance and pride, and still, that ignorance always won over in the most unfair way.

In the end, it wasn't Moriarty getting to John. It was the loneliness. Sherlock was so aloof all of the time, and even the occasional cravings for affection and attention became fewer and fewer until there were none whatsoever. John was so used to waking up in the middle of the night from a sudden nightmare, and then either being lulled back to sleep by the soft intonation of the Stradivarius from the sitting room or being gently touched on the face in the darkness and then pressed into a warm embrace. There was no one to comfort him after the nightmares were over. He was alone and small, wrapped up in the feeling, the smell, and the aesthetic of Sherlock, but without the man himself. Sometimes, the loneliness would become so unbearable that he'd attempt to squeeze his eyes shut so tight that he could pretend Sherlock was still there. It would feel as though Sherlock would walk in at any moment, and seeing John's present location and condition, either ask what was wrong or bristle at the unexpected occurrence. There was so much to the little things that Sherlock occasionally did. They weren't even that important, but they meant so much at the same time. Of course, Sherlock never saw the deeper meaning behind anything he did, be it insulting or snogging. John didn't hold it against him, though he wished he would have. That wouldn't have bothered Sherlock at all, not in the least.

Guilt simply was not something Sherlock experienced.


End file.
